Trouble By Numbers Series Read online

  Hot Scots Boxed Set

  By Donna Alam

  Copyright © 2017 Donna Alam

  Published By: Donna Alam

  Contents

  Trouble By Numbers Series

  Free Book Offer!

  One Hot Scot

  Two Wrongs

  One Dirty Scot

  Catch Up With Natasha

  About The Author

  Free Book Offer!

  Following the success of One Dirty Scot, an Amazon top 50 performer, enjoy an extra peek into Kit and Bea's life.

  CLICK HERE to receive a free copy of One (Extra) Dirty Scot! Following the success of One Dirty Scot, an Amazon top 50 performer, enjoy a peek into Kit and Bea's life.

  You’ll also be added to my my reader group, meaning you’ll be the first to learn of other freebies, bonus content, and general smutty goodness!

  One Hot Scot

  Book 1 of the Hot Scots Series

  By Donna Alam

  Copyright © 2017 Donna Alam

  Published By: Donna Alam

  Copyright and Disclaimer

  The moral right of this author has been asserted.

  All rights reserved. No parts of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, without the express permission of the author

  This book is a work of fiction. Any reference to historical events, real people or real places are used fictitiously. All characters and events in this publication, other than those clearly in the public domain, are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  Copyright © 2017 Donna Alam

  One

  Fin

  ‘If you wouldn’t do it to your grandad in broad daylight, you shouldn’t be doing it to some random in a public carpark, for goodness sakes!’

  ‘What did I miss?’ I only left the room for a minute—someone needed to replenish the wine supply.

  ‘I’m trying to explain to madam over there,’ Ivy says, hooking a thumb over her shoulder. ‘That just because it was dark and she’d had a skinful—’

  ‘I was not drunk!’ Natasha’s protest is accompanied by an indignant scowl.

  Ivy swipes the bottle from my hands, her words falling in a tumble as she twists the lid. ‘She says she scored last night and only just stopped herself from . . . from pleasuring him in the carpark!’ Gathering the length of her dark hair in one hand, she bends to pour the blood-red liquid into her glass. As she straightens, a flush of discomfort is vivid against her cheeks. ‘Go on, tell her what you just said,’ she demands, passing the bottle on.

  Beneath her peroxide mane Natasha’s brows furrow like a couple of caterpillars over a cloud of glittering pixie dust as she takes the proffered bottle with a scowl. I really must talk her into toning down her make-up. Her fake lashes are a bit like tarantula legs and her HD brows? I think she has the IMAX version.

  ‘I only said I almost had my hand down his pants. I couldn’t help myself. He was a real bilf.’ The rejected bottle bangs against the table, Nat pulling a hipflask from her purse instead.

  ‘I’ve told you before,’ Ivy counsels, ‘you have to keep your hand on your tuppence for longer than five minutes if you want them to respect you in the morning.’

  ‘In the morning? He was out on his ear as soon as we were done. It wasn’t respect I needed, just a good seeing to.’ Nat’s shoulders shake with a dirty, sniggering laugh. ‘Anyway, my kitty’s worth more than tuppence. It sparkles. And occasionally queefs rainbows. What bilf could resist that?’

  ‘That’s quite a picture,’ I respond. ‘And not one I want to imagine, thanks. But you could explain what a bilf is, for those of us who don’t speak Natasha.’

  She doesn’t answer, instead adding a generous amount of dark liquid to her can of cola as Ivy mutters something about using a glass and a coaster. ‘There’s just something about a man wi’ a beard,’ she eventually replies, pulling her off-the-shoulder t-shirt further . . . off her shoulder, revealing a neon pink bra-strap.

  ‘Yeah, there is. Something scruffy.’ Ivy huffs before taking a dainty sip of her wine. ‘Something lazy. Can’t they be bothered to shave? I mean, imagine if women decided not to shave the three p’s for months on end. Do you think we’d be hailed as fashionable?’

  ‘Don’t ask!’ I almost yell, unfortunately the same second Natasha does.

  ‘Pits, pins, and, you know,’ Ivy answers, indicating the pertinent areas with pointed thumbs.

  ‘What? Pits, pins and what?’

  ‘You know.’ A vivid pink streak highlights each of Ivy’s cheeks.

  ‘Not sure I do.’

  ‘Your tuppence,’ Ivy whispers, the pink deepening to beet red.

  ‘That starts with a t not a p,’ responds Nat.

  ‘Pussy, okay?’ Ivy replies hotly. ‘Pits, pins and there, I said it, pussy! Happy now?’

  Nat shrugs while I try not to giggle with perverse pleasure, hearing her utter the word she hates most in the world.

  ‘But you don’t wax your pus—’ Nat begins, rolling her eyes at Ivy’s stern expression. ‘Okay, how about your lady garden’s more like the Australian outback.’ Ivy frowns, confused. ‘All bush.’

  ‘You are a poor advertisement for business,’ I agree, unable to bite back my smile.

  ‘Advertising? I’m hardly likely to be flashing it around. Besides, I wouldn’t let you anywhere near my growler,’ she retorts, pointing her thumb once more at Nat.

  ‘Thank heavens for small mercies,’ Nat replies. ‘Bushy and growly? No ta.’

  ‘Maybe when I book my intimate waxing course—’

  ‘Don’t be daft,’ Ivy interjects, cutting me off. ‘You won’t be here long enough to benefit or deal with the upkeep of anyone’s lady bits.’ Leaning over and squeezing my knee, she adds brightly, ‘You’ll be off to better things soon.’

  I shrug evasively, mumbling in defence of the intimate waxing course I’ve been considering as adding to my skillset. And as for moving on to better things, I’m not so sure. Sometimes I think I’ll be Ivy’s freeloading roomie forever, living my days out in her tiny box room, sleeping on her crappily sprung daybed.

  ‘And,’ adds she of hirsute militancy, ‘talk about double standards. I’m pretty sure hairy bottomed women would never be as popular as hairy faced men. I hate this beard fashion . . . thing.’ Her face twists inelegantly. ‘It’s like living in a state of constant Movember.’

  Please, not this again. ‘You didn’t tell us what a bilf is,’ I say to Nat instead.

  ‘Just my favourite thing in the world; a beard I’d like to f—’

  ‘Beard, dearie?’ From the fireside, June comes awake like an elderly jack-in-the-box, her bright blue eyes blinking rapidly. ‘Will you be waxing men after your course, Finola?’

  Eurgh. I hate my name. Hate it when anyone uses it like that. It’s Fin. How many times have I got to say it? Fin! I’d even answer to o, or even la, if I have to, but never all together.

  Fin + o + la = Finola ≥ a stupid name.

  ‘Do you not think that might upset the barber on the high street?’ Her worried gaze slips to Ivy.

  ‘Fin won’t be booking any waxing course.’ Ivy scoffs, like the whole idea’s a huge joke. But it isn’t. Wasn’t. Oh, I don’t know! ‘She’ll be jetting off to the corporate world again soon enough. Besides,’ she says, turning a softer gaze to June, ‘I’ve no intention of stealing the barbers’ trade. Natasha was just telling us about her latest gentleman . . . erm, caller.’

  ‘Well, he came all right,’ Nat says under her breath. ‘All over my back. I couldn’t resist!’ The burr of her accent grows more gleeful with each delivered word. ‘A beard! A bear
d I love to f—’

  ‘Nat!’

  ‘What? I was gonna say fondle.’

  ‘What was that, dear?’ asks June, grasping the book balanced on the arm of her chair. Opening the cover, she begins to absently flick through the pages. ‘A beard did you say? I imagine it was like having a hamster to pet. I do recall you nearly killed the one I bought you when you were seven.’

  ‘I nearly killed the beard last night.’

  ‘Pardon, hen?’ June asks again. I adore being referred to as hen, especially by June. It’s sort of like hun or sweetheart, but more Scottish.

  ‘I loved it too much, Nan,’ Natasha answers, overly loud.

  ‘You did, you did,’ she agrees with several nods of her snow-white head. ‘Now, what chapter were we discussing? I must’ve nodded off for a wee while.’

  It’s hard to believe this has become the highlight of my week since finding myself back home—and when I say home I mean it in the loosest sense—in a tiny little seaside enclave in the Scottish borders called Auchkeld—living it large with book club night. Or as Natasha calls it, chillin’, wine swillin’ and poncy literature nillin’.

  We meet once a week in Ivy’s tiny flat above her new business venture, Emporium, a beauty salon, due to open next week. Our book club chapter totals four members. Ivy, my best friend forever. Well, almost forever; my best friend since I moved hered aged twelve. Much like myself, she’s also recently returned to the village, though I don’t buy her reasons as purely coincidence. Sure, a hair and beauty salon is just what this village needs, but she’s leaving behind a pretty impressive career. Not to mention, she’s here by choice. Unlike myself.

  My other book club buddies include Natasha, a twenty-one-year-old beauty therapist and part-time nymphomaniac. And, lastly, June, Natasha’s octogenarian grannie, who Ivy seems to have somehow inherited along with Nat.

  ‘The page, hen?’ June prompts.

  ‘What? Oh, we haven’t started yet.’ As usual, Natasha’s Friday night tales of strumpet in the city beat that of any steamy book, because yes, it’s that kind of book club. ‘We were just chatting about . . . men.’

  Folding her arms across her chest, Ivy snorts.

  ‘What?’ Natasha protests. ‘It’s not like I went out specifically to get fondled . . .’

  She smiles slyly and I try not to shake my head like an old prude. Sometimes I feel like we’re from different planets. There are only five years between us, but those years are as vast as the ocean sitting between Scotland and the States, which I suppose is where I’m originally from, given that I was born and partially raised there. Fake tan, hair extensions and shady decisions after one too many drinks; why is it everyone under twenty-five thinks they invented a good time?

  Maybe because a good night for me includes fluffy socks, a steamy book and the company of someone more than fifty years older. At least, recently.

  ‘Anyway,’ continues Nat. ‘He had a man bun, which you know I love, and that full-on facial fuzz. I just wanted to stroke it,’ she adds dreamily. ‘And ride it,’ she adds a lot more forcefully.

  ‘I know beards are fashionable, but isn’t it a bit, I don’t know . . . unhygienic?’

  ‘Psht! It’s manly! There’s just something primal about a man with a beard. Something that says I’m here now, the boys can go home.’

  ‘I’m here now,’ repeats Ivy in a bass tone. ‘Get the flea comb out.’

  ‘You know what you are? You’re facialist.’ With a smile full of self-satisfaction, Nat folds her arms. ‘A fascist facialist.’

  ‘That sounds like very niche market porn,’ I respond. ‘Neo-Nazis skinheads and a face full of ejaculate.’

  Simultaneously, the three of us burst into dirty, sniggering giggles.

  ‘But, hey, what about when he, you know . . .’ Ivy’s words trail off, her eyes comically wide. For a minute, I think she’s trying to convey meaning by telepathy before her head begins to move like she’s developed a sudden tic.

  ‘When he what?’ Natasha asks, frowning.

  ‘You know, when he goes downstairs?’ Her tiny button nose scrunches, the last word spoken so quietly, it’s more breath than actual word.

  ‘What, down to the salon?’

  ‘Nooo. Downstairs.’ Ivy puts her thumbs to pointing use once again. ‘Wouldn’t he need to shampoo his face afterwards? Get out the detangling spray?’

  ‘Nah. A beard says I can handle the fall out.’

  ‘The only hair he’d be plucking out of his teeth would be his own,’ I add, sniggering.

  ‘Honestly!’

  ‘A beard says I’m adventurous,’ says Nat.

  ‘My George was a wee bit adventurous.’ June’s sleepy voice floats up from the fireside chair. ‘He was even known to drop anchor in poo bay from time to time.’

  The room is suddenly pin droppingly silent, all eyes turning to June, though her own remain closed, her head resting back against the old wing-back chair.

  ‘Your grandad?’ Ivy silently mouths the question to Natasha, who shakes her head in response.

  ‘George was my first husband and I was little more than a child bride, but we married young back then. A soldier he was. He died just after the war, the poor love. He was such a bonny man.’ Her tone is almost wistful, her eyes blinking open, her gaze touching each of us in turn. ‘Tall, dark and handsome. He was like something out of one of yon Mills and Boon novels, only my Georgie was very well endowed, you know in the . . . aye, down there.’ Closing the book on her lap, she taps the cover lightly. ‘They didn’t write about those bits in my day. But, my goodness, was the man ever adventurous!’

  ‘Nan!’ What sounds like admonishment from Natasha morphs quickly into wicked glee. ‘You dark horse!’

  ‘What? Oh, not me, dear,’ she replies, with an air of a large blue-eyed owl. Sitting straighter, she begins to pull the sides of her pink Fair Isle twin set closer. ‘I think he was one of them, what do they call them these days? Bi-scotti?’

  Maybe less owl and more cuckoo.

  ‘Italian biscuits?’ questions Ivy.

  ‘I think she means bi-curious,’ I say, uncurling myself from the chair to reach for June’s empty sherry glass.

  ‘Aye, that’s it,’ she agrees. ‘Just plain greedy, if you ask me. It was probably for the best that he passed,’ she adds with a sigh. ‘I was heartbroken at the time, but I had a hard time sharing him, you see.’ Her guileless gaze stares up at me and for a minute, it’s like she can see through me, right into my very head.

  ‘How did it happen? Did he die overseas?’ My words are little more than a whisper and I find the fingers of both hands curled into my chest. Heart pangs; it’s a word most are familiar with, but not many truly understand. I’d always thought it to be brain-based, a sort of an emotional thing. But it isn’t. It’s an actual feeling, both shocking and physically painful, like catching your shin on the corner of a low table, or being pinched.

  Only the injury is to your heart.

  Overseas. In some strange field.

  Or a lonely stretch of water with the sun beating down.

  ‘Ocht, no!’ June’s voice brings me out of my nightmarish reverie with a snap. ‘He was hit by the number twenty-three bus coming out of one of them Turkish bath places in London. Like I said, he was a greedy man.’

  The others try to smother laughter as, like an automaton, my fingers reach again for June’s glass when her small hand catches my wrist. My eyes don’t meet hers, or more accurately, I can’t look. Not without crying and I’m trying to do less of that. Instead, I stare at the back of her hand; the blue veins beneath skin like a covering of delicate parchment, the unexpected elegance in her fingers, and how the light from the wood fire plays on the pale gold of her wedding band.

  ‘You survive,’ she says softly. ‘You get out of bed and put your knickers on, just like any other day. Because giving up isn’t an option, and it’s not, what they would want.’

  I do look at her then as she grasps my hand, holding
it between her own. ‘I won’t tell you it goes away, but one day, you’ll look back and realise it hurts a wee bit less, and then a wee bit less again.’ Her tone is earnest as she begins to pat my clasped hand. ‘Then someday you’ll meet someone else, just like I met my Harold. There’s a Harold out there for you somewhere. I just know it, hen.’

  But I don’t deserve a Harold. People like me don’t deserve a second chance.

  Two

  Fin

  The following cold and very rainy Tuesday, Ivy’s salon opens, and I don’t mind saying we’re all on hot bricks. Ivy has sunk her life savings into the place and Natasha gave up a spot in a busy city centre beauty bar to be here. But me? My terror lies elsewhere. Yes, if the business fails I’ll be homeless, but I’ll be in good company in my cardboard box. Not that it’s going to come to that as this place is awesome—the talk of the village, so June says. And why wouldn’t it be? All sumptuous gilt fixtures, exposed stone walls and raw, natural wood. The place is a million miles away from its previous incarnation as “Agnes Riley’s Hair Emporium,” which hadn’t been updated since 1965, at least.

  Ivy’s version of Emporium oozes an old world glamour with a side order of cutting edge, while somehow retaining a welcome that is friendly and very Ivy. I’m sure the village hasn’t seen anything as sophisticated in years. And that aside, Ivy is a hair genius. True story. God only knows why she’s cutting hair in bum-puck Scotland when she could be plying her trade anywhere in the world.

  According to Nat, while we’ve both been away, this crummy little no-place has become a desirable commuter community. House prices have sky-rocketed and the yummy mummy tribe and their something in I.T. husbands have moved in. Ivy’s business plan is banking on the upwardly mobile to not be quite so itinerant; for them to shop local for their expensive caramel and honey highlight needs.

  But I’m not ruining the cuffs of my Givenchy sweater at the thought of meeting those living in pseudo farmhouses on desirous half-acre blocks. Nope. It’s the locals I’m terrified of meeting again. Since moving back, I’ve barely ventured beyond this building. In fact, it took me weeks to get myself beyond the refuge of Ivy’s spare room. I’ve avoided seeing familiar faces; the bitches I went to school with, the ones who wrote nasty things about me on the bathroom stalls. The boys who may or may not have felt me up behind the gym, but said they did anyway.